Mother, I'm Here
by WingsOfTheYatagarasu
Summary: Feeling rejected by her clan once again, Clair reflects on what she's lost and what she could have had.


_**Author's note:** This was written on dA for a prompt-the prompt was simply "nurture," which brought to mind a lot of ideas I've had about Clair. This also had to be under 1000 words, a challenge I gladly took on. Enjoy!_

* * *

Clair's legs are heavy as she approaches the shrine in the Dragon's Den once more, her Kingdra nestled safely in her Poké Ball once more as she walks by the two sages, coming face to face once again with her grandfather.

Disapproval lines his face already. Clair can _tell_ he's been watching her every move, that he's been waiting for the moment he could shut her down once more. She's part of the clan, she _needs_ to pass this challenge. She _will_ pass this one. This time. She'll do it no matter what the cost.

Kneeling before the clan's elder, Clair lets out a sharp breath, barely able to keep her eyes open.

She knows how it'll end. She can't be what the elder wants, what the clan supposedly _needs._ She can't be either of the master's deceased daughters, she can't be Lance, she's not winning enough, making a fool of herself, destroying the clan's powerful reputation in the process.

She can't be what her grandfather wants.

What he wants is for her to be her mother. His beloved daughter, torn from him too soon, her face reflected all too well in the hardened expression of his granddaughter, the source of so much of his shame.

The master bows, asking her the same question he's asked practically hundreds of times.

"Clair...As you wish. If you believe you're ready to be tested once more...What are Pokémon to you?"

"...I don't need to answer that," Clair wheezes, slowly standing again, "I've told you. Pokémon are partners. There's nothing else to this."

"Mmh..." The master pauses to take in Clair's words, in particular her sharp tone, before speaking again. "...Tell me, Clair. Strong or weak Pokémon...Which do you prefer?"

Already? Already, he's asking her about that? Clair grits her teeth.

"It doesn't matter."

Literally lying through her teeth. She's _not_ there to prove herself, she's there to finally please the clan, to finally stand on level ground with the mother and aunt who had given their lives for the clan, and with the cousin who she swears will someday end up doing the same.

Her grandfather shakes his head, gesturing towards the door to the shrine.

Clair has to hold herself back from striking at him herself. He's _family,_ and he's the one who should know better...

...Even if Clair refuses to say he's right.

With a soft hiss, Clair storms out of the shrine, a failure once more.

* * *

It's a small spot in the southern meadows of Route 45, marked by a pond, an Apricorn tree, and off to the corner, barely noticed by anyone at all, a small stone.

Her mother's last moments were here. An image forms in Clair's mind once again, the image of her mother, with blood clinging to her clothes and the body of her beloved Dragonite beside her. Clair still doesn't know what _exactly_ took her mother's life. She won't ever know, she's well aware.

According to the master, she'd died protecting the clan.

She'd left her daughter, her sister, her nephew, her father.

Six years later, just after Lance had left for the League, her sister left those who remained.

It frustrates Clair to no end. She'd known, once, the comforting touch of her mother, and later the same from her aunt, but the world had seen fit to tear it away from her.

It takes her back to _years_ before, when she'd first been given her Horsea. It takes her back to that hotel room in Celadon, when her mother had told her that she'd need to run off on her journey sooner rather than later, that there were only two years left before Clair turned eleven and would be _able_ to run off as a trainer.

It takes her back to her mother's arms, to the utter _warmth_ of it all, to the way her mother had spoken with such glowing pride about how much promise she showed.

All this happened mere months before disaster struck.

She had _someone_ to nurture her back then. To guide her. To lead her towards the values the master had _wanted_ to see.

At this point, though, Clair doesn't _want_ that guidance. She doesn't want anything aside from the warmth that her family used to be able to provide. Everything still feels like it's fallen apart, as if the death of her aunt was the final nail in the coffin for Lance, the last thing keeping him away from Blackthorn.

Clair's legs finally give out.

She removes her gloves and runs a finger along the stone, wondering if it'll be as everlasting as the clan seems to think.

It's as if they've just...Forgotten her. The _master's_ daughter, forgotten.

Maybe, just maybe, it's where her own fears are coming from. Fears of not being good enough, of being forgotten long after her passing, of being doomed to live in the shadow of those who _did_ accomplish something with their lives.

Her voice is breathy, barely audible, as she speaks. The sun is setting. A breeze carries her hair for a long moment.

Clair says the two words she always seems to say when she visits this place.

"...Sorry, Mom."


End file.
